Blaney was not so extraordinary of appearance, but he presented the effects of the class known as artistic. His thick, fair hair, while it could scarcely be called long, was a trifle longer than the conventional cut. His collar, while not Byronic, was low, and he wore a Windsor tie, of a sickly, pale green. He was a big man, but loose-jointed and ungainly of build. His manners were careless, and his voice was low and soft. He had big grey eyes, which seemed especially noticeable by reason of enormous tortoise-rimmed glasses, whose long, thick bows hooked over his ears. "You are a poet," Patty said, decisively, after a smiling survey; "and you are right, I have always wanted to know a live poet." "I hope," said Blaney, in a mournful way, "that you don't agree with those wiseacres who think the only good poet is a dead poet." "Oh, goodness, no!" said Patty, quickly. "But most of the poetry with which I am familiar was written by dead men--that is, they weren't dead when they wrote it, you know----" "But died from the shock?" "Now you're making fun of me," and Patty pouted, but as Patty's pout was only a shade less charming than her smile, the live poet didn't seem to resent it. "Doubtless," he went on, "my work will not be really famous until after I am dead, but some day I shall read them to you, and get your opinion as to their hopes for a future." "Oh, do read them to Patty," exclaimed Elise; "read them now. That's the very thing for a stormy day!" "Yes," Patty agreed; "if you have an Ode to Spring, or Lines on a Blooming Daffodil, it would be fine to fling them in the teeth of this storm." "I see you're by way of being a wag, Miss Fairfield," Blaney returned, good-naturedly. "But you've misapprehended my vein. I write poems, not jingles." "He does," averred Elise, earnestly. "Oh, Sam, do recite some--won't you?" "Not now, Lady fair. The setting isn't right, and the flowers are too vivid." Patty looked at the two large vases of scarlet carnations that stood on the long, massive table in the middle of the room. She had thought them a very pleasant and appropriate decoration for the snowy day, but Blaney's glance at them was disdainful. "He's an affected idiot!" she exclaimed to herself. "I don't like him one bit!" "Please like me," said the poet's soft voice, and Patty fairly jumped to realise that he had read her thought in her face. "Oh, I do!" she said, with mock fervour, and a slight flush of embarrassment at her carelessness. "I like you heaps!" "Don't be too set up over that," laughed Elise, "for Patty likes everybody. She's the greatest little old liker you ever saw! Why, she even likes people who don't like her." "Are there such?" asked Blaney, properly. "Yes, indeed," Patty declared; "and I can't help admiring their good taste." "I can't either," and Blaney spoke so seriously, that Patty almost gasped. "That isn't the answer," she smiled; "you should have contradicted me."